A Secret Exchange
by Ruby Silverstone
Summary: The human desire to possess what they cannot have is strong, and Madara finds himself falling before he has the sense to catch himself. The human desire for companionship is strong, and Aku finds herself falling before reality can come crashing down. But trust is a fragile thing, and when a surviving war general and a monster meet, a promise means nothing. Secrets, however, do.


A Secret Exchange

The first time he saw her, he was looking at another woman.

Now, the woman who he was watching was a beauty. Hair like spun gold cascading down her back in waves until it reached her slim waist. Green eyes—a rare find in this country—and long lashes that skimmed the edges of her cheeks. Her body was slim with voluptuous curves and gently sloping shoulders. Her ankles small and delicate; just like her wrists.

She was the talk around here, you see. The beauty of the Temple of Athena. His men talked of her often: during break, meals, in the middle of drills, even after lights out he would hear whisperings of this creature. Of course, she was just a woman, and he assumed—waited—for her name to stop circulating among his men and tainting their thoughts. But it didn't really stop. If anything it grew and he was forced to evaluate his men as little more than boys who had just found the wonders of intimacy.

Needless to say, he was irritated. He could hardly turn his back for a moment before his ears would pick up the three syllables that made up her name: Ameda. Many were the times he'd had to brutally correct disrespectful behavior toward him from the distraction that this name caused. It angered him beyond words. It was just a woman. A priestess no less. Someone no man could have.

And yet they lusted after her still.

His regiment and himself would ride for battle at dawn, and as a decorated general, it was tradition for him and his men to pray at Athena's temple for wisdom on the battlefield and courage in the face of death. It disgusted him how gleeful the soldiers were at the news, and he decided then that he would seek out this woman, this Ameda, and see just how beautiful she was.

And she was beautiful.

She wove her way gracefully through the throng of men, politely smiling, greeting, and waving. The sacred blessings given to the men of war were festive ones, and she danced and sang to match her surroundings. Long tables had been set up on the outside of the temple grounds, for parties were not allowed inside unless on special occasion, and food and drink littered their surfaces. Colorful banners were strewn across the grounds and he could hear music somewhere; light and cheerful, disregarding of the bloody battle that would without a doubt occur only a few hours from now. And she was beautiful. He watched her still, her hair swaying with her hips as she walked. Swirling his wine around in his goblet, he looked at his reflection in the red liquid and snorted. She was only a woman.

But, as he flickered his eyes up to her once more, for he supposed he'd enjoy the view if only for a little while longer, something else caught his attention entirely. It was another woman, leaning up against a tree on the outskirts of the festivities just beyond the glowing image of Ameda. His eyes sharpened on her, watching her watch the laughing people before her. He found her position curious. Not quite hiding, but most certainly not wishing to be seen. The set of her shoulders was firm, and the angle of her chin high. Her arms were crossed under her chest, and he was mildly surprised to find that she looked rather…irritated with what was going on around her.

His vision was obscured as Ameda come up to him, filling his eyes with gold and green. "By the name of Olympus why does a general such as yourself brood so?" She breathed, a smile stretching her lips as he glanced down to her. "I only brood in the face of what I must ride to on the marrow." She laughed a little at his answer. "Then come," she grinned. "Enjoy Athena's generosity!"

"If it was Athena offering," he muttered, too low for anyone but himself to hear. Louder he said, "Dear maiden, I would not. One of us needs to remain sober, and I fear my men are too far gone to recognize the word." He emphasized his point by gesturing to a group of very red-faced soldiers supporting each other as they stumbled over their own feet. She laughed heartily and opened her perfectly shaped mouth to say something further, but was interrupted by a stumbling drunk. "Dance with me!" He shouted, dragging her away. The general snorted, bringing the goblet to his lips as his eyes searched for the mysterious woman yet again.

He did not find her.

The second time he saw her, he had returned from the battle. It had been bloody, as all battles were, but they were victorious. What men of his remained whooped in joy when the Temple of Athena came into view, ready to pay their thanks to the goddess for her eye upon them in times of violence. Despite this, he knew most of them were only really willing to see Ameda despite their promised gifts to the goddess in the face of their enemies.

The woman he had seen months before was there, but in a position that surprised him. She was on her knees, her white gown splotched in dirt and mud, hands folded neatly in her lap. Mud was smeared all over her face, leaves and sticks were tangled in her hair, and cuts and scrapes were scattered over her arms and hands. She was being reprimanded by and elder priestess, the old woman shaking her finger at her while some of the other girls snickered. As he drew nearer, he could make out the words of the old woman.

"—child! Do you wish to bring shame and offense upon this temple? You are a disgrace! An abomination! Look at you! Filthy, dirtied—even your dress is torn! By the name of the goddess do you even think before you take an action or do you…"

"Lady Mai is most certainly angry with her," he heard a near priestess whisper to another. Her friend leaned in closer. "She deserves it. Why, I saw her earlier playing in the mud, mixing together different colors of dirt!"

"Dirt? How unthinkable for a lady."

"A lady? That creature? Nay, I tell you that _thing _is something that even Hades would cast from his realm in disgust."

"Tala you speak too much! Hold your tongue before some other ear hear of it!"

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed around the marble room and he tore his eyes from the girls to look upon the spectacle. The elder priestess had slapped the girl hard against her cheek, a red mark burning bright against the flesh of her skin, mud covered hair shielding her eyes in matted, brown sections. She slowly brought her head back to face forward, throwing her shoulders back and tilting her head upwards again in a show of pride. She was struck a second time for her disrespect and then hauled to her feet to be cleaned. When she did so, her torn dress fell around her and he found a good portion—the entire front of the dress from the middle of her thighs down—missing. Gasps went around the room from the sheer amount of skin, dirtied at that, which the young woman was showing. What surprised him more that she seemed relatively indifferent about the entire thing.

He watched her and the elder priestess walk down one marbled hall, feminine giggles surrounding him as they mocked their fellow sister. Her features were indistinct from his distance, and the mud disguised the color of her hair, but as they began to round a corner, she turned her head. He was only able to catch a glimpse of flashing gold before she disappeared. His breath caught in his throat, and he took an involuntary step forward, arms falling limp to his sides.

And then the room came back into focus, and all he could think about were her eyes.

He turned to the nearest priestess, the one who had said that Hades would cast her from his kingdom, and whispered low in her ear so no one else could hear.

"Who was that creature?' The priestess turned to him only to find his eyes fixed pensively at the hall that the girl had disappeared from. "You mean that thing? Quite a past she has."

"Tell me."

"Why would a man such as yourself wish to know?" her tone was suspicious, and he knew that she would only tell if she was given reason to. He let his eyes bore into her own, allowing a charming smile to overcome his normally strict expression. The instant color that flooded her cheeks told him that she would be a willing informant. The young girl averted her eyes. "She was taken in when she was still an infant. The elders say that her mother had abandoned her here and fled."

"And the father?" the girl's friend entered the conversation, shaking her head. "We know nothing of him."

"She is a bastard child," the first girl said. "Her mother was believed to be a prostitute who had the misfortune of enticing a monster to her bed. That is where she gets her eyes."

Her friend nodded. "And her unusual strength. She never tires, no matter how many chores the elders give her in punishment."

"And is she punished often?" The general asked, intrigued. He only got a huff of laughter from the girls. "Often," one cried. "Why, if I had one bronze coin for every time she was reprimanded and two for how many times she was punished I would be the Queen of Greece!"

"Nay, dear sister! You would be invited to Olympus for all your wealth!" The two laughed heartily and bid their farewell. The general straightened, looking intently at the hall once more before spinning on his heel and walking out of the temple.

He never asked for her name.

The third time he saw her was without the company of his regiment and nearly a year later. He had been promoted through the ranks and now was needed more in the strategy room than in the lines. His reason for visiting the temple were not for his own sake, but for his brother, who rode to battle in two days. He stood before the alter, his offering of a small pig under his arm, waiting for the priestess before him to finish her prayer. A feminine cry of rage rose shrilly above the chanting in front of him. The priestess stuttering in shock before starting up again, ignoring the many crashes that reverberated around the marble pillars and then the many heads that began peeking around halls and columns.

A girl suddenly burst out from a pillar and sprinted across a room, blue paint dripping from her fingers as she looked behind her. She did not see the girl who had just turned the corner headed in her direction, nor did she stop to apologize as she collided roughly with the young woman, spun, and kept running, her victim now covered with the paint. An enraged female soon followed, jogging through the halls and stopping short when she came upon the girl that had just been ran into. "You!" she seethed, looking over her paint covered torso. "How dare you defile the prayer room with your games and foolish pranks!"

Here, he began to recognize certain things, and realize others. The girl that had been run into had a brown scarf tied securely around her head and tucked at the nape of her neck so not one piece of hair showed. She was tall, slim, with dirty bare feet and calloused hands. As he looked at her, he began to recognize that certain set of shoulder, that slight tilt of the head…

Then she turned to look at him. Brilliant gold eyes collided with his obsidian, piercing, firm, nearly _demanding _him to…to do something. Confusion replaced his shock, but before he could think further, the other woman stalked towards her and slapped her hard upon the face. He stood, rooted to the spot as she delivered some of the harshest words he had ever heard targeted towards a woman's honor, and wondered why the girl with the golden eyes did nothing to protest these accusations. He opened his mouth to speak on her behalf, why he wasn't sure, but then her eyes were on him again. And then he understood. She didn't want him to do something, she wanted him to do _nothing. _She was struck twice more, once to the face, and another to the stomach with a metal rod before being pushed to her knees and being forced to apologize and beg for forgiveness. She was then dragged away, he assumed for further punishment.

He was only brought out of his thoughts by the finishing chant of the priestess before him who had diligently ignored the happenings behind her, and brandished a knife. She sliced it upon the pigs neck, allowing for its blood to drip down the sacrificial alter as she asked him to offer his prayer. He looked up calmly, gazing into her eyes and noted the discomfort that he'd found there. "Why?" he asked. They both knew what he was asking. She could've spoken up, could've stopped the older woman from beating the girl with golden eyes, but she didn't. But then again, neither did he.

The girl only averted her eyes, staring at her feet as she once again, quieter this time, asked him to offer his prayer. Suddenly angry, though he had no idea why, put his palms together and offered a tight prayer to the goddess. No sooner had the last word left his lips than he was marching out of the temple, his feet echoing on the marble floor and down the many temple steps.

The fourth time he saw her, it wasn't in the flesh. She came to him in a dream, clothed in black and gold and staring into a stone bowl. Swirling fog surrounded them, and when he called to her, she only raised her hand, beckoning him without words. When he did not come, she raised her head, staring at him with those strange eyes, like Apollo himself had trapped the suns light inside them. His feet moved without his consent, and before he knew it, he was standing behind her, his tall frame nearly dwarfing hers as her head just barely reached his collar bone. She waved her hand over the bowl, and suddenly there was water. He was staring at her reflection, but could not see his own in the clear liquid. _"What is your name," _he asked. She only pointed at the water. He looked closer, staring deep into the reflections eyes, still the same, ethereal gold that he'd never seen on a human before. And then suddenly it changed. It was no longer the woman that was once there, but now a ferocious beast.

A panther with fur of the blackest night, eyes the same as the woman's, and teeth a gleaming ivory. And though the woman standing in front of him was still the same, her hands braced on either side of the bowl loosely, her reflection now bore the resemblance of a caged beast, fighting, thrashing, begging to be set free. And with one ferocious roar, it burst from the water, leaping towards him with jaws outstretched.

He shot up in bed, hands flying towards his face in an act of defense as his chest heaved and cold sweat dotted his brow and ran down the sides of his face. As his breathing slowed and his mind repeated the acts of the impossibly vivid dream, he laid back to his bed and thought that he must be losing his mind.

When morning came, he found himself at the bottom of the temple steps where he knew she lived. He didn't know what he wanted from her, but he knew without a doubt that he would not rest until he had her name lest more dreams like the first haunt him. With an air of grim determination, he ascended the steps, his footfalls heavy. When he reached the top, he called for a priestess using the bell that they had mounted near the prayer room and waited.

His wait was short lived for before long he heard the sound of bare feet shuffling across the marble floor. He turned towards it, and froze instantly for behold! There was the woman from his dream! Her feet were still bare, and her hair was still covered, but now he was fully able to see her. Her eyes were even more striking up close, flecks of amber streaking through the gold like the sun's rays would cut through the skies at sunset. Her skin was tanned in comparison to the pale hue that woman usually strove to obtain and he could smell the deep set scent of earth coming from her. Like the aroma of the forest after a shower. Her cheekbones were high set upon her oval shaped face and her lips were full, the barest hints of pink in them. Her eyebrows were thin and shaped, but what caught his attention was that they seemed to be painted with a thick, black substance. He looked to her covered hair in a new light and wondered what she was hiding.

"You called." It was not a question, but a statement, and though he knew he should be answering, he was momentarily stunned by her voice. It was deeper than the lilting soprano that most women aspired to have, some even forcing their voices to be higher in hopes of being more attractive. But hers was deep, thick, and rich like honey, unabashed and unafraid. The set of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin drew his attention again and he thought back to how she had taken the blame for the paint incident. He found his respect and interest growing.

"Yes," he murmured, looking over her a second time. "For you." She looked a little taken aback at the statement, and as his eyes settled on hers again, he found them to be flashing. "And what have you, a high ranking officer, to do with a priestess such as myself?"

"Your name," He blurted before he could still his tongue. "And an explanation."

"For what?" she answered, her eyes becoming more and more guarded. He licked his lips. "The last time we met, a woman with blue paint upon her hands ran into you. Though you knew you were not in the wrong, you took the blame as well as the punishment. Why?"

She looked shocked, but it was short lived as she regained her composure. "That was many days ago, what does it matter now? It is past."

"It matters just as much now than it did then," he hissed. "If you won't answer on my curiosity, than answer for the sake of my conscience." She watched him carefully, from his burning coal colored eyes to his near heaving chest and something told her to answer. Cautiously widening her stance, as if preparing for an attack, she replied. "I took the blame because it is what everyone expects. No one wants for the glorified to fall, and no one wants for the damned to rise."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and more venomous than he'd ever intended.

"And I suppose you think that you are one qualified of pity, the unsung hero, the beaten saint?"

He didn't know what to be more shocked by: her words or the fact that she had dared to speak at all.

"Do not patronize me!" She roared. "If I had wished for pity, or sympathy, or any other form of attention, I would have had it long, long ago. I give them their satisfaction because _I _pity their _pathetic _need to be above another! I am not chained here, by gratitude or by guilt, and if I want to leave then by _Hades I will leave!" _With that, she whirled around, form tense and stalked away. She'd nary a taken two steps before his hand was around her arm. He spun her roughly to face him, to demand an apology, to reprimand her, but as soon as he did he regretted it.

Her eyes were like embers, glowing and flickering with barely suppressed rage. She snarled at him, baring her teeth as she wretched her arm from his grip. He released her in fright, her face suddenly transforming into the panther he'd seen the night before, and in a flurry of clothing, she was marching away.

His chest heaved as his heart raced, and after a moment of deliberation, he called out to her.

"Your name!"

She spun so quickly that her skirt twirled around her bare feet and he was sure that the scarf on her head should've come undone.

"Aku!" she spat.

He stood rooted to the spot, the name running through his mind as a conversation from nearly a year and a half came back to him.

"_Her mother was believed to be a prostitute who had the misfortune of enticing a monster to her bed. That is where she gets her eyes."_

Monster.

The daughter of a monster.

The meaning of her name.

The translation rolled from his tongue and past his lips like demonic silk, as he whispered it in a nearly reverent, breathy sigh.

"Nightmare."

* * *

He avoided the temple after that. The image of her bared teeth and glowing eyes replaying in his mind as he remembered the way they turned into the panther. He knew that her face hadn't actually changed, but it bore such a similar resemblance that his mind simply made the connection.

But to no avail. It seemed that even though he avoided the temple, he could not avoid her. Every time he stepped outside he was reminded of her scent. Every time he saw the gleam of gold on jewelry or coin he thought of her eyes. And every time he saw a cat he was reminded of her fierce disposition. Never had he encountered a woman like her before. In his experience, in every man's experience, women were demure, fragile beings with flighty personalities and light, soft-spoken demeanors. He was unused to such a bold personality, and it haunted him like a ghost.

She came to him in dreams, too. Dreams, but not like the first. No, these dreams were nothing like the first, but they scared him even more. The first of their kind emerged two nights after he had seen her. They were standing together, as they had been, in the prayer room, reciting the conversation that had taken place. It was like watching a memory, but instead of offending her and her walking away, the dream took a different turn. He was shocked to find himself reaching for her, touching her, kissing her with a ferocity that was nearly feral. He took her on the temple floor, whispering her name as she screamed his. He'd woken up in a sweat that night, but it was far from cold.

From there, it only got worse. As the dreams progressed, they only got more detailed. He could taste the salt of her skin, feel the silky texture of her hair through his fingers, her lips on his neck, his pulse, his body. He could feel her heat, hear her voice as she breathed his name like a mantra, begging him. He always woke when she climaxed, breathing in short, staccato pants. He'd began to fear his bed, as well as rest. Bags formed under his eyes from the lack of sleep, and his fellow lieutenants questioned him. He'd only said that he hadn't been sleeping well. They suggested that he needed a woman in his bed. That only made the dreams even more vivid.

He searched frantically for distractions. Walks outside, war plans, parties, meetings, _anything. _But she was everywhere. In the air, at the corner, in the market, at a stand. He saw her face in mirrors, in his own reflection, even in the eyes of his own men.

Finally, he could take it no more. He raced up the temple steps, bypassing the priestess that had come to greet him, and rushed through the halls in search of the phantom that had haunted his every breathing moment for the past two months. He found her, kneeling on the hard floor. The front of her dress was soaked, sleeves brushing her elbows as she worked a straw bristled brush back and forth upon the marble slates. Soapy suds and water mixed around her hands and the area she was cleaning, sweat trailing down the column of her throat, muscles flexing as she pushed the brush back and forth. Short pants of exertion came from her pink lips, tempting him to take them in his own. His arousal spiked so quickly he nearly toppled to the side from the sudden wave of dizziness he felt. By the name of Zeus what was this woman?

Eyes gleaming, he marched to her prone figure. She did not hear his approach, and when she finally sensed him, it was too late. He hauled her up by her arm and dragged her away, ignoring her shout of surprise and lead her down an abandoned corridor, snuffing out a torch as he went. "Release me!" she cried. "Unhand me this instant you cretin!"

"Silence," he hissed in response, throwing her against the wall and caging her there with his body, hands on either side of her head and his chest nary an inch from hers. "Why have you brought me here?" her voice was harsh, guttural, hissing, and he only found it alluring. Her eyes sparked like small flames in the dark of the corridor, and before he could stop himself, he'd taken her face in his hands. "Show it to me."

"What?"

"Show me the fire."

She froze, tensing against the wall as his eyes bore down into her like drills. "Fire," she repeated, breathing out the word. His eyes flickered to her lips as the soft pink appendages shaped the sound, and he swore that he'd never wanted to kiss a woman more. The thought only made him angry. Why? Where was his self-control? Why did his body react this way?

"What have you done to me?" She looked so inexplicably puzzled at his question that he was caught between laughing and yelling. She used her hands to grasp at his biceps, the touch sending a jolt through him as he registered the heat even through his clothing. "I have done _nothing _but defend myself in the face of your unwarranted criticism. _Nothing."_

The urge to take her then and there was rising, and he found that the longer he looked into her face, the more his fingers itched to rip off the scarf; the dress; that defensive expression and show her the love of a man. His dreams came back to him full force then, and while erotic images played across his vision, he found that he wanted her eyes on him. They were constantly flickering; from the wall, to the side, above, to the ground—anywhere but him.

He shook her. _"Look at me!" _

"Why?" she roared back, finally finding that spark inside her that allowed her to be angry. His breath caught at the inferno that blazed like beacons in those molten pools, like the very fires at the gut of a volcano, churning and boiling lava. "Yes," he whispered, his gaze shaking her to her very core. Aku didn't understand why he was looking at her so intently, but the sheer power of the gaze was causing gooseflesh to rise against her skin. She didn't like it. And when she didn't like something, she got angry.

The army man was surprised when she began to flail beneath him like a feral cat, scratching, hissing, hitting and pushing against him with all her might. He grunted a few times as her fists banged against his armored chest as he worked to suppress her. "Cease woman!"

"Release me!"

He finally managed to calm her down, now pressing full against her, both her wrists locked above her head in his hands. Both parties were panting now, breathing heavily and his eyes darkened with lust at the flushed look on her face. She struggled against his hold again, bucking underneath him in a bid of escape. Frustrated, she let out an angered howl.

"_Who are you?" _The question was spoken with a tone of fury, irritation and something like awe lacing the words.

"Uchiha," he replied, breathing heavy. "Uchiha Madara."

"Then, dearest Uchiha, _remove your dishonoring person from mine before I __castrate__ you."_

"And do you really think you could?" he laughed, amused by her threat. Her gaze was piercing. "I assure you," she whispered. "I will give everything I have to that cause."

"I would much prefer it if the cause was something rather different." Her roar of outrage was worth the impressive bruise to his stomach as her knee rose abruptly. He released her instinctively, hands flying to the pain as she slid out from beneath him. He watched her stalk down the hallway, dress swishing as her bare feet slapped against the marble floor. "Aku," he called. She whirled, brandishing her finger as if it were a sword, the fury in her eyes stirring something deep within his stomach. "_Do not _speak my name as if you know me. You are no longer welcome here, _Uchiha, _and if I catch you within twelve paces of my person, the deepest level of _hell _would be fairly considered utopia!"

He laughed at her retreating back, watching her fuss about her clothing and checking to see if the scarf was still securely in place. As he watched her nimble fingers furiously tuck and jerk at the scarf, he cursed himself for not wrenching it from her head earlier.

* * *

It was several nights later, in his chambers, that Madara came to a realization. Two actually. The first was that Aku intrigued him. Not only that, but she tempted him. And now he finally understood why. It wasn't because he knew she was intelligent under all those protective layers, and it wasn't because she was just beautiful. No, it was her spirit that drew him; like a moth unto a burning, scorching flame.

The second was that he apparently had an unhealthy appreciation to violence and strategic wit. He could only assume that this was a product of many, many years on the battlefield.

* * *

If Madara was learning anything, it was that Aku was a woman of her word. He'd continually gone to the temple in search of her. For what purpose, he did not know, for talking certainly wasn't really in his mind, but each and every time something foiled him. It was as if the Gods themselves were working against him. The first time, he and she were separated by a long stretch of newly cleaned, wet floor, priestesses bustling about their chores and Aku kneeling at the far end, brush in hand. She'd sneered at him with such a malicious satisfaction that had it not been for the many spectators, he would have crossed the distance and pinned her against the floor right there.

The second time, he came on their laundry day. Garments of white were hanging from the second story balcony as the women worked, buckets of soapy water perched precariously on the ledge. When Aku had caught sight of him, he smirked, giving her an expression of such dark promise that he saw her muscles lock even from where he was standing. She hurriedly brushed past another girl, jutting out her elbow _just so. _The young priestess flailed in response, tipping her bucket over the edge. The water fell upon him like a dirtied waterfall, soap suds like froth as they grayish liquid spilled over his head and down to his feet. Soaked, he looked up at the balcony through his drenched hair, searching for that infuriating woman. The way her eyes glittered as she cast a backwards glance at his dripping figure let him know that it was entirely intentional. He cursed the temple rules with all his heart because men were strictly prohibited from the second floor.

The next time, it had been during a festival, and he planned on using the crowd to his advantage to hide his person until he was close enough to her. It had almost worked too; he was within seven paces of her person before she spotted him and quickly inserted herself into a large group of young girls. She mouthed something to them that instantly snared their interests, animatedly pointing to him. She made some flapping motions with her hands, as if hot, and gave a lascivious wink. He became suspicious when they all suddenly looked at him, and frowned when he saw her bite her bottom lip, desire spiking low in his gut. But before another step could be taken, his path was blocked as three of the women from the group came over to him, studiously thwarting any attempts to step around them and flirting so outrageously that it bordered scandalous. When he'd finally removed himself from their company, his target was lost among the sea of people.

His next attempt was approached with the attitude of war, determination radiating from him like physical waves. And he had succeeded. Glee was the only thing that he could use to describe the emotion that he felt when his arm closed around her upper arm and hauled her into his chest. He almost groaned aloud when he felt her slim curves against his body, but stopped himself because they were not quite alone yet. Victory coursed through him, and though she struggled mildly, not wanting to cause a scene during the harvest festivities, he knew that there truly was nowhere for her to run, and she knew it as well. "Lord Uchiha!" he turned to the voice, pulling away from her slightly to maintain a socially accepted distance, but not loosening his grip on her arm. "Lord Uchiha!" the voice called again as two of his soldiers burst from a throng of people. They panted before him, urging him to follow with their hands. "Fight! In the courtyard! Come quickly!

"You cannot handle this?" He wasn't sure why, but when he spoke, Aku trembled and shivered in his hold. "No, they've taken out all their weapons! We've tried to stop them but each time we only get thrown back. Come there's no time!"

The urgency of the situation finally registering, Madara gave a single, smoldering gaze to Aku, and slowly, one by one, let his fingers uncurl. He let the digits trail slowly down her arm, smiling as gooseflesh rose on her skin in response. She shivered a second time before stepping away, and head bowed, disappeared into the crowd. Once she was out of sight, he allowed his anger to show. Coal eyes fairly turning crimson in rage, he stalked towards the two foolish, horribly foolish, men who had _dared _to stand between him and his success. He had _had _her. His punishment that day had been the most severe he had ever bestowed to a fellow soldier.

* * *

_Boom…_

The drums were loud in his ears, reverberating around his cranium like bees under his skull. The clatter of armor surrounded him as soldiers moved; both on foot, their swords banging against their hips and their shoes stomping through the mud as rain poured from the heavens, and on horse, the armored beasts bearing the weight of an equally weighed down rider.

_Boom…_

The patter of rain surrounded him, spattering the ground and jumping off of stones as the water missiles impacted with the rock. Droplets slid off of leaves and into the grass, leaving glistening diamonds for when the sun came out. Thunder rumbled overhead, dark storm clouds silently promising the tempest to come.

_Boom…_

It was the song of war.

_Boom…_

The procession was long, the army marching through the streets of the city, over bridges, across farmland, and past the temple. Along the way white flowers were thrown to the men, some catching them for luck, others waiting to receive the gift personally. They were a symbol. It meant that someone was waiting for their return.

_Boom…_

Madara sat atop his stallion, ever the image of the regal leader. His eyes were intently focused on the road ahead, thoughts swarmed by the upcoming battles and at the same time taking in the scenery. He knew he wouldn't be able to see it for a while; years perhaps. He allowed a sigh to pass his lips. The Persians were moving, and Greece was responding. This wasn't just a battle that would last for a few months—this was war.

_Boom…_

The Temple of Athena came into view, rising from the greenery like a pillar of light despite the dreary weather. Golden eyes flashed across his mind's eye.

_Aku. _

He didn't know just what she was to him, and he often wondered what she could potentially become. He knew he wanted her—it had gotten to the point that he would refuse any other woman, and there had been many—and he knew that she was a powerful individual. Not physically, but mentally. The backbone she possessed was astounding, and he found himself pleasantly surprised every time he saw her.

But now it was war.

He wouldn't get to see his Aku; wouldn't be able to chase after her like a dog after a cat; wouldn't be able to finally see what she was hiding under that scarf.

But he wanted to. And as the temple front was in full view of the procession, he found himself unconsciously scanning for her. To his surprise, she was there. At the end of a long line of all the priestesses. They wore all white—white dresses, white sandals, white bracelets, they even used white ribbons to tie their hair back. In their arms were large bundles of flowers, and as they procession passed, they threw the flowers, one by one, into the air. The white petals rained down on the soldiers along with the heavens tears, as if begging them to return safely. But Madara's eyes were fixed solely upon her.

She looked different today. Perhaps it was because she was actually clean—not a smudge of dirt on her. Maybe it was because she was wearing shoes—white like the rest of them. Or even that she had replaced her grungy, brown scarf with a white one as well—it was tied so tight that he felt he should loosen it. But really, what caught his attention was the look on her face. She looked near tears really, broken, sad, tears. But he knew she was too proud to let them fall, so she allowed for the rain to spatter her face in some kind of mock crying, letting the droplets to slide down her cheeks as if they were her own. Her head was high, her shoulders thrown back, and in her hand was a single, white flower.

And then he understood.

There was someone precious she was losing, and she wished to bid him farewell before war snatched him from her fingers. He discreetly scanned the faces around him as jealously roiled uncomfortably in his stomach. Who was it that had captured her so? And in his own army? Knowing that guessing was inevitable, he turned his eyes back to the beauty to watch who she approached. She looked back at him, meeting his eyes fearlessly. They continued like that for a while, his horse walking slowly forward as they maintained eye contact, the beat of the drum hanging in the air. He would soon have to turn in his saddle to see her properly, but he didn't care. When he was directly in front of her, she took a step towards him.

He jolted the reigns in surprise, halting his horses progress, hardly daring to hope. And then she took another step, surer this time. She was walking towards him, white sandals plopping heavily through the mud.

If he hadn't been so shocked, he might have smiled. Sending a prayer of thanks to the goddess, he nudged his horse in her direction. It followed easily, breaking from the ranks as the procession moved forward without him. She stopped before him and his horse, halting at the side of the beast and next to his leg. They stared at each other for a moment, both unwilling to speak for words were neither needed nor wanted. She looked determined, anxious; like she couldn't believe she was doing this but at the same time knowing she wanted to. He knew he looked surprised, even a little suspicious. Was this truly the stubborn woman he had known?

And as the rain spattered against his armor, and his black horse rocked its head in restlessness, she held out the flower. Her fingers were trembling around the long stem, from cold or nerves, he did not know. The flower drooped in the rain, small droplets clinging to its petals like morning dew as he stared down its yellow center.

As if in a dream he reached his own hand out, taking the flower from her fingers gently, as if afraid to break it. But then he realized he really didn't care about the flower. As her hand was lowering he shot out his own to grasp her wrist, the flower pinned between his fingers and the back of her hand. He was amazed at how much smaller she seemed then, her fingers fragile and dainty in his own. He brought the small appendage to his face, leaning as far over as he could on his horse to reach her better. Pressing her calloused palm to his cheek, he enjoyed the warmth it brought as well as the small intake of air that he heard from her. Closing his eyes, he turned his nose inwards against the skin and breathed in deeply, catching the scent of earth. It made him smile.

And then he kissed her. Directly at the center of her palm, he kissed her. His lips lingered, determined to take in everything he could at this moment as she shivered and gasped. He dared not open his eyes, for even though he wished to see her expression, he was locking the way her fingers felt against his face into his mind. Ever so slowly, he straightened. His hand slid against hers, dragging his fingers along her own until they could no longer touch. She held her hand against her chest protectively, a look of utter shock on her face as her lips parted in a surprised "o". He straightened fully then, rising to his full height, and giving her one last, burning gaze of promise, directed his horse and trotted away, the crushed flower clutched tightly in his hand.

He did not look back at her, did not turn his head to admire the scenery, for he did not want to ruin the memory of that one moment. Soldiers, in times of war, would use memories to keep their sanity, to keep them alive as they fought and fought and fought. It was something to ground them, something to strive towards—a goal to reach for.

He knew that if there was any time during this war that he was near death…

… that would be the memory he clung to in order to live.

* * *

The war was a long and dark time. Like a shadow, it stretched across the landscape and poisoned villages, cities, and towns. Flames flicked towards the heavens, licking at the sky as they rose from burning corpses and wood. Ash filled the air, falling like black snow upon the battle-worn. Blood and screams and cries of mercy became the music of the night, ringing in his ears as he took life after life, his hands stained crimson, his eyes cold stone.

His sword was becoming duller and duller as it hacked away at enemy men, and yet it never lost its razor edge. It gleamed in the light, shimmering and singing as it sliced through the air, arcs of blood following its wake. He could feel the vibrations travel up his arm as the blade connected with another, the dance of metal and the battle cries of men as they fought for their country—their lives.

Sweat rolled down his back, his neck, his face—everywhere. It was hot. So, so hot. His throat burned and his eyes stung, but he didn't stop fighting; couldn't stop. Scars; they littered his body like tattoos, overlapping each other in their quantity. Fine lines for blades, blotches of shiny skin for burns, choppy serrations for scrapes. It was only when he washed the grime from his body, the dirt, the sweat, the blood, that he could see these scars. This story etched upon his skin like hieroglyphs upon stone.

The horrors of the battlefield haunted him at night, jerking him from fitful sleep with such ferocity that he feared to sleep again. Cries echoed in his ears, the dying words of a soldier no more than twelve summers running circles around his mind, the plea of mercy; the _screams. _He feared his bed, but beyond the safety of the tent lay the true nightmare.

Reality.

He didn't know how long he had been gone. Didn't know how long he'd been fighting, day in and day out; in the sun, the snow, the rain. All he saw now was sand. Sand and dry, dry dirt. Parched landscapes, cracked roads, and heat-waves were all that met his searching eyes. He'd forgotten what grass looked like; the view of the mountains with the sun rising over their snow capped tips. He missed the feel of tree bark under his hands, and day by day, he'd forgotten about that too. His home seemed surreal; five brothers boasting and bantering around a dining room table—what illusion was that? Another mirage of the desert he was in? Was the heat getting to his head?

He felt like dying. It was getting harder, and harder to walk each day. His will to go on was faltering, like a flame slowly suffocating from the sand it was surrounded by. So tired; so sore; the pain was too great.

He was only vaguely aware of the sand around him—the grains digging into the side of his face, slipping into the cracks in his armor, the folds of his clothes—when he fell. He saw the dirt puff up around him like a cloud and was vaguely reminded of glowing ashes floating up into the sky. Nothing seemed to reach him. He couldn't hear the voices screaming his name, his brethren urging him to forge onwards with the promise of home. He didn't feel their rough hands shaking him on the ground. All he could see was sand. That damnable sand. And when he closed his eyes, he couldn't even see that.

And then it came to him. Like a soft, summer breeze blowing him in the face, he could smell the earth. It was rich, so very, very rich. Dark, thick, rich earth. He could smell the grass, the trees; he could smell the snow on those mountains. He could smell the rain and the flowers; the dew slipping off the narrow leaves of the thistle. Rosemary and thyme twisted together with the scent of stone. He could smell _her. _

No.

He could _feel _her.

The callousness of her palm against his cheek, the warmth from her hand seeping into his face like the gentle kiss of the sun. His fingers tingled in remembrance of her silky skin under them. He could taste the sweet nectar of her skin on his lips; feel her pulse pounding when he'd kissed her hand.

And then gold. So sudden, so beautiful—it was so vibrant, so full of life; of spirit. Those eyes had the sun itself trapped within them, and he wanted to see them again. He didn't want to see them flashing in mistrust; not the hard glint of chipped glass; not the inferno of rage. He wanted to see them light up like the break of dawn over the mountains; wanted to see them gleam like the finest gold glinting in the sunlight for him. He wanted her bare herself before him. No secrets, no scarves, no stony expressions.

He wanted to see her smile.

He wanted to hear her _laugh._

He wanted to run his fingers through her hair and kiss her until she could only speak his name.

And he couldn't do it here. Not in this sand. Not in this desert. He had to get to Greece. He had to get home.

His muscles shook as he rose, grasping at the offered hands, arms, and shoulders. His legs were like a new borne babe's, but he was standing, and with every step he took, he got stronger. The scent of earth was fading now, but it was enough. It was enough to know what he was fighting for; what he _would _go home to. He was awake now. He could _see _now. And as he mounted his horse, eyeing the weary men behind him as they marched forever onwards, battle-worn, tired, and weary—it was like waking up from a dream.

The procession had halted when he had fallen, their leader toppling off of his horse. He felt the deep set embarrassment and shame of such an act and knew that he had to make up for it. Turning his horse to face his troops, he threw his shoulders back, tilted his chin, and gave the most empowering speech his men had ever heard. His voice carried over the army like thunder, as if Zeus himself was aiding their leader in this moment.

And the god of gods had stayed with them. They rode into battle the next day, dawn spilling over the desert horizon in a flurry of red. They flew over the battlefield, defeating enemies as they went. Their strategies worked, their will strong, and their leader fearless. And after three long, long, tiring days; after they had lost brothers, friends, and fathers; after they had heard the last of the Persians screams, victory was theirs.

The festivities were joyous and wild. Untamed in the ferocity of the exultations as glee ran rampant throughout the newly claimed capital city. The Greeks enjoyed the exotic tastes of the Persians; wine so rich it choked you, and food so great that you could hardly stop eating. The music and dance lasted through the night, drunken mumblings the softest of lullabies for the weary.

Madara lay on his mat, staring at the ceiling of his tent. He fell asleep with a prayer of thanks and to ask for a safe journey home, the scent of earth washing over him as gold flooded his mind. As the darkness overtook him, the reaching fingers of rest pulling him down into the abyss, he smiled.

_He was going home._

* * *

The festivities of his home land rivaled the ones that had taken place after the final battle. Normally, it wouldn't be even able to compete, but with all the soldiers returning to the welcoming embraces of their loved ones, tears forming in the corners of their eyes…it was hard to ignore.

Banners were strewn across buildings, draped colorfully against the plain backdrop of brown or grey. Flowers, yellow this time, were vivaciously cast into the sky, raining down upon the joyous army in a hailstorm of flying petals. Cheers, thunderous in their volume surrounded them on all sides as they marched through the streets. Citizens of Greece hailed their return with stalks of wide leafed plants that they set before them to walk upon. Food and wine were set upon stands, sending their luscious aromas into the air.

But he saw none of it. If anything, he found it slightly annoying. He was weary; so very tired that he could hardly retain his posture atop his stallion. He knew he should be celebrating with the other men, knew that he should have the energy to do so, but he couldn't find it in himself. The yellow flowers only reminded him of the sickly sands of the desert, the cheers drowned out the sound of the forests around him, and the food overrode the intoxicating scent of the earth.

And he couldn't see her.

She'd given him a white flower. She was supposed to be waiting for him—at the city walls, in the city hall, along these pointless vendors he didn't care—but she was supposed to be waiting for him. So where was she? His eyes scanned the crowds relentlessly, ignoring the mingling that soldiers created when reunited with family, searching for a hint of gold. Even that _infuriating _scarf would provide comfort now. He needed to see her; to _thank _her. She'd saved his life. And by the gods she was supposed to _be _here.

But she wasn't. As the day wore into night it became obvious that she took no part in welcoming the war veterans, or him, back home. And he was angry. He'd survived so much—blood, screams, loss, horrors that could scarcely be put into _words—_so that he could lay his eyes upon her figure once more. So that he could stare into those eyes as she welcomed him home. But the only eyes he was seeing were ones like his own: black, cold, and fathomless.

"Madara!" A voice sounded, hollering over the festivities joyously. He turned towards the sound, to find something that surprised him. His brothers. Madara was the third son in five, the oldest of them, Fugaku, was the King of Greece, lending the rest of them to be royalty. The brothers that were now speaking to him were the two youngest. He'd always found them to be loud, even overly so, but he recognized the bond that they shared. "Miro, Hiro," he answered, a grin overtaking his features despite his sour mood. "By the gods it is good to see a familiar face."

"Indeed, indeed! The gesture is extended to yourself good fellow! Your victory against Persia is celebrated!"

"Yes," Madara answered, more subdued as he thought back to the war. "For now."

"So glum," his second brother shot him a look half-way between disgust and disappointment. "Come, brother. Bask in your achievement. I daresay that you seem sour by the look on your face!"

"Hiro, if the look on my face was to be anything, it would be amazement in the sight of your hideous visage."

"Ha!" Hiro grinned, clapping Madara on the shoulder. "Your taunts do not work as well as they once have. I am a man now, dear brother, not a child!"

"Can you prove that?" Madara chuckled, allowing himself to be steered away towards a table of refreshments.

"As a matter of fact," Miro responded, injecting himself into the conversation. "He really can. Hiro over here has—"

"Hold your tongue!" Hiro shouted, slightly panicked as he shoved some nearby bread into his brothers open mouth. Miro now choking, Hiro opened his mouth in admonishment. "What say of yourself knave? We had agreed that the news would come from my lips, not yours!"

"Forgive me brother," Miro laughed, still somewhat gagged by the bread. "I had merely forgotten." Hiro gave his older sibling an unconvinced look, but nonetheless turned towards Madara. "While you were away at war, something that I wish I could have accompanied you in, I have found myself a wife."

It was Madara's turn to choke. The wine that was in his mouth was quickly sputtering into the goblet he held to his lips, the other portion of the liquid forcing its way into his lungs. His brother patted him firmly on the back in an attempt to help, but really only made the matter worse. Regaining his breath, he stared incredulously at his younger brother. "_What?_"

"A wife, dear brother," Hiro smiled. "A pretty thing that I found in the market one day. We were married in the winter."

"And does she live with you yet?" Madara questioned, still reeling from the first news but his lips asking anyways. Hiro grinned in response. "Nary a month ago. And she's talented with the loom. We've already had three tapestries to adorn my home."

"Congratulations, brother," Madara said, clasping his youngest sibling on the shoulder and smiling. "I wish you a successful life and many sons." The grin Hiro gave him was nearly blinding. He opened his mouth to say something, but Miro made himself known. "Say, Madara," the sly smirk that was sent his way were sending off warning bells in his head. "You've been to war for five and a half years. After being in the company of men for so long, what say you to the company of a woman?"

Hiro crowed next to him. "Indeed. Surely you thirst for supple flesh! We must find you a consort!"

"Nay," Madara responded, shaking his head. "Only one will satisfy this thirst." The comment was said mostly to himself, and if he were in his right state of mind, Madara would have kept his lips shut on the subject, but the damage had been done.

"Ho?" Miro grinned. "What creature hath captured our stoic brother's attentions?"

"Tell us, brother, so we may reunite your person with hers." The suggestive innuendo was not lost on Madara and he gave them a bored look even as erotic images flooded his mind. His body responded almost immediately, and not knowing what to do, he downed the rest of the wine in his goblet. "It is none of your concern. Forget I said anything."

Their bark of laughter sent dread coiling in his gut. Why, he did not know. He was not ashamed of Aku, and as he intended to claim her as wife, he shouldn't be. But something deep within him protested with a howl at letting another man, even his brothers, seeing her before she was publicly his.

"None of our concern? Brother you jest too much," Hiro laughed. Miro swung his arm around Madara's shoulder. "Come now, Madara. Do you really think that we, once hearing that our stoic, serious, brother who is thought to be displeased by everything has actually found a _woman _of all things, that we will just leave it rest? Nay, I exclaim! Nay! Tell us her name!"

"I am neither stoic nor continually displeased. I fear that I only suffer from a case of high standards."

"Enough, brother. You tease us. Tell us her identity or I fear we must extract the information ourselves."

Madara cursed his lips. For not wanting to have any man know of her, he was speaking quite freely about Aku. "Madara," Hiro laughed in a teasing manner. "The alcohol awaits!"

Madara smacked him over his head in response. "Intoxication, besides not working, will not be necessary," despite himself, he found himself smiling. "So you'll tell us?" Miro crowed, a hopeful tint to his tone. A smirk twitched the corners of Madara's lips slightly, some kind of glee coursing through him at his brothers antics. He had missed home.

"Not everything, brother. But I tell you what I can for she is not my wife. Not yet."

"Ha!" Hiro barked. "Yet indeed! She will be yours by the end of the week, I dare say!"

"She is already mine, Hiro, just not publicly," He raised a new goblet to his lips. "A challenge stops me from proceeding further, though. Two perhaps."

"Do tell."

"For one, she is unwilling, though I maintain that it will change if it has not already."

His brothers only looked confused. Miro spoke up first, grabbing a passing snack. "I see this as no challenge. What choice has she, a woman, in the makings of marriage? You need only arrange it with her father to make it reality."

Madara shook his head. Although what his brother had said was true, it did not necessarily apply to Aku. Under normal circumstances, he would be able to simply go to her father and demand her hand in marriage. She wouldn't have a choice, as woman did not, and she would be his wife. But she had no father to speak of. And besides that, another barricade barred himself from her.

"She is a priestess, Miro. And as law dictates, a priestess has the right to serve her temple as long as she wishes." He had damned that law many a time, for it stopped him from taking her as his. "I cannot convince her father to coerce her into a marriage for she has none. Not a father nor a mother."

"Hmm…" Hiro, hummed thoughtfully. "You could possibly have the high priestess discharge her from her duties. Without a father or mother to vouch for her, you could easily claim her as wife. No fuss."

For all the laughter that his brothers had done that night, Madara found that it was his turn. His harsh bark startled the two men next to him as he dissolved into a righteous fit of glee.

"Her? Follow a high priestess' orders? Ha! That stubborn vixen would sooner scale the city walls than hand her future over so easily! No," he laughed, shaking his head as he began to calm down. "No, it is better if she were willing."

Besides, he wanted her to be willing.

"I admit that the thought had crossed my mind," Madara, continued, taking in his brothers shocked expressions. "But after a few more encounters with her, I found that that plan of action would be as pointless as convincing Fugaku to smile."

If anything, that analogy would prove the hopelessness of the situation. Madara had often pondered just how he was going to make Aku his wife. As a priestess, she was protected from marriage unless her father willed it. But she had none, and although the high priestess could discharge her, Madara had no doubt in his mind that Aku would somehow manipulate the old woman in her favor despite her numerous transgressions. He did not know how he knew this, but it was instinctive and he did not doubt it.

"I wish you luck then, brother." Hiro said. "And speaking of our surely older brother I have news that might," his eyes gleamed as a thoughtful look passed across his face. "Interest you."

"Very well," Madara said, turning fully towards him. "What say you?"

"Before, I found the news little more than a passing notification," he picked up his own goblet, swallowing a mouthful before continuing. "But after hearing you, I find it an interesting development."

"Come, Hiro," Miro interrupted. "Tell us this news that has evaded even my ears."

"It seems," Hiro responded, swirling the red liquid of his wine in the goblet. "That our dear nephew has a similar situation to you, Madara. Sasuke has found himself—infatuated I hesitate to say due to inadequacy but obsessed seems to cross a line—with a priestess as well."

Madara's muscles instantly locked, the golden goblet pressed against his lips slowly lowering as he fixed his brother with a piercing gaze. When he spoke, his voice was even, calm, but had an edge of sharpness to it. "Elaborate."

"I suspect that this was gradual, for the interest of that boy his hardly ever snagged quickly, but a fortnight or so ago, Sasuke came home one day from a walk with an odd expression on his face. Any expression I admit would warrant attention because the boy rarely displays any, but this one…this one conveyed something close to obsessive interest. I knew with one look that he was thinking intently about something, or someone, with that fierce and calculating mind of his. When I questioned him, he merely waved me away. Undeterred as you know me, I asked again.

"I had to fairly interrogate the boy under threat before he would speak to me at all, and when he did, the answer was short. 'A challenge' he'd told me. 'A challenge that might prove entertaining.'"

"That boy only thinks of challenges. What makes this different?" Miro asked. Hiro responded with a furrowed brow. "Those were my thoughts as well, at least until a few days ago. I found him staring at a piece of jewelry with such a look of possessiveness that I thought he might devour it. It startled me, I tell you. That boy has always had something dark inside of him."

"And did you question?"

"Of course," Hiro responded, looking at Madara. "Of course I did."

"And his answer?" Madara pressed. Hiro only shook his head. "He only smiled. Nay, a smile could not compare with that expression of shadowed glee. I only found it was a priestess he was so involved in when he brought the topic to his father over dinner one night. He was ambiguous, as he always is, and I do not think that Fugaku noticed, but it shocked me."

By now, Madara was near shaking with suppressed rage. Only the vain hope that he was some other woman that had captured his nephews attention was stopping him from seeking the boy out himself. The hope that it was another priestess with dazzling eyes and fierce personality that presented herself as a challenge to that boy's hungry eyes.

Swallowing thickly, Madara asked his final question.

"And what," he began, his voice a few octaves deeper than he normally used. "Was the color of the jewelry?"

Hiro's brow furrowed as he stared down into his wine, pondering over the dark expression his nephew had worn. "Gold," he replied. "Bright, sun reflecting gold."

Madara felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. His knuckles were slowly turning white has he gripped his goblet with a fierceness that could crush bone. An uncomfortable feeling of dread and anxiety coiled in his stomach when the face of his youngest nephew crossed his mind's eye. Somewhere, deep and buried in the depths of his soul, he had known this would happen. Had known that his infatuation with Aku would not be the only one. And somehow, his heart had known before his mind that it would snag Sasuke as it had him. Sasuke held the eyes of shadow, black, fathomless, soulless shadow. And while the boy cared for nothing, little could escape those eyes. He took everything in, down to the smallest pore upon a cliff face he surveyed his surroundings; always seeking, always searching for something to sate his insurmountable appetite for challenge.

The prince of Greece was a cruel one, and as Madara unwillingly pictured Sasuke caging Aku in his arms, hands digging into the flesh of her back as he forced her into his body, a wicked sneer upon his face, Madara vowed then and there that he would stop at nothing until Aku was undeniably his.

Without another word, Madara slammed down his goblet on the nearest flat surface, red liquid jumping over the rim from the force, and stalked away.

* * *

The temple was quiet tonight. The torches that lit the stone walls extinguished so that they could not throw their light across the regal marble of Athena's place of worship. Stars scattered the dark sky like pinprick diamonds on a velvet sheet. The moon was full, the eerie orb of the Goddess Selene staring down at the world from her perch high in the night sky, casting the world below in an ethereal glow. The greenery that surrounded the temple, a rich emerald green, was now basking in a silvery glow, turning everything a minty grey. The white stone of the temple gleamed, small sparkling speckles of quartz glittering in the stone like shimmering dew drops tangled in a spiders silken web.

Despite the beauty, it held such an air of silence it was disturbing. Madara shivered slightly as gooseflesh rose on his skin, his black hair tumbling messily down his back in spiky, uncontrollable waves. His obsidian eyes gazed upon the vision before him at the bottom of the temple stairs, observing the lonely building. Was she truly inside? But she had not been at the festivities, he was sure of that, so this was the only other option.

The flashing image of Sasuke's satisfied smirk as he burrowed his head between Aku's shoulder and neck flitted across his mind, spurring him into action. With hurried, angry strides, Madara flew up the marble steps, bypassing the presented alter and all but ignoring the statue of the divine goddess. The entrance room was empty, and while he considered ringing the bell, he did not want to bring unwanted attention to himself.

The halls were dark, shadowed by the tall pillars supporting the massive roof overhead. He searched them like a phantom, lingering in one place for only a moment before moving on. He came across several priestesses, but they were young, merely children going about mediocre chores and were evaded easily. At the very center of the building, he came across a courtyard with neatly trimmed gardens and budding flowers. A blazing fire rose from a golden pit, prayers etched into the precious metal as wood was continually fed to keep it forever burning. A priestess was attending to the flames, but she was not the one he sought. He passed stealthily behind her, whispering past like a fog on deft feet. She turned around, as if hearing something, but her eyes found nothing but air and shadow.

Madara continued his search, but the time came when he had inevitably searched the entire first floor. He stared intently at the staircase that would lead him to the second. He knew that if he was caught, it would be an act considered highly offensive, not only to the people, but to the gods themselves. So then, he would simply not be caught.

He ascended them quickly, silently, his sandal clad feet scuffing the stone like the brush of leaves over the ground, eyes burning in the dark as he focused on the curve of the stairs. When he reached the top, he came to an abrupt L shaped turn. Peering cautiously down the hallway, he found it to be abandoned save a single, burning torch. He crept down it like a cat, peering over corners when he came to them and crouching when he was in danger of being spotted over the balcony. He was lost in the maze that made up the second floor, but he was determined, and soon, he was rewarded.

The hushed murmur of voices caught his ears, indistinct words being exchanged between two women—no, a child and a woman. He inched closer and closer until it was only a corner that separated him from seeing who the voices belonged to. From what he could tell, the turn would have revealed another hall, larger than others judging by the way their voices echoed slightly. And there was a window, a square of shining moonlight cutting past his hiding place to form a slanted rectangle on the balcony wall to his right.

"When do you think the others will be back?" A voice asked, the child, Madara assumed as the pitch was too high. There was no answer. "Do you think she'll be back by sunrise?" Again, no answer. The child whimpered. "Why do you not speak?"

This time, the second voice did answer. It was like honey, thick and rich, flowing over his ears like music and calming his jumping muscles. "Because child," it whispered. "You only ask things that you already know the answers to."

There was a silence.

"Why is your name Aku?"

"Why is your name Enta?"

"My mother gave it to me. Did your mother give you your name too?

A pause. A sigh. "You ask too many questions, child."

There was another silence, broken only by the sound of splashing water and clothing being wrung out. "Ameda told me that your father was a monster and that was how you got your eyes."

The splashing sounds halted, and then a moment later started up again. "I suppose she would. Do you think that they're from a monster?"

"I've never seen a color like it before."

"…I suppose you haven't."

"Did the monster like your mother?"

"Maybe, but perhaps not."

"Does that mean that the monster wasn't really that scary?"

"I do not know. Here, take these logs to Maka for the fire. She might need help." The sound of wood scraping stone could be heard even as the child asked her next question.

"Will a monster come after you too?"

The sound halted all together, silence ringing through the air.

"Perhaps, child," her voice was soft, thoughtful, but it picked up, almost too loud for the silence around them as she attempted to joke. "But he'll have to catch me first!" The child giggled in response, and Madara had a feeling that she was going to ask a question, but Aku beat her to it. "Go, quickly now. We must keep the fire burning."

The child made a sound of assent before he could hear the small sandal clad feet coming towards him. He looked around for a place to hide, for he did not want to be seen. He finally found a place and leapt upwards, bracing his legs and arms against the hollow in the overhang of the balcony roof. The child stopped just before turning the corner, looking at the woman he knew was there.

"Maybe the monster that catches you won't be that scary either."

And with that, she continued her journey, her brown head passing beneath him as he waited. When he could no longer hear her footsteps, he swung his body down, alighting gently on his feet.

He could hear Aku working beyond the corner, water splashing across the stone floor as she cleaned the laundry. He cautiously peeked his head around the corner, muscles relaxing as he found her back towards him. She was kneeling down, hands dipping into a bin full of water and scrubbing vigorously against a wooden washboard, soap bubbles encircling her arms and parts of the rim of the tub. He watched her work as he slowly advanced, his steps quiet as death itself. He tensed when she stood, flicking water off her fingers and wiping them on the front of her dress, a breathy sigh escaping her lips.

She turned towards the window, the moonlight enveloping her body in its cool embrace, alighting her skin like a glowing image of ethereal beauty. She reached her slender hands forward, bracing them at the ledge of the window and staring out into the cloister of trees beyond. Madara watched the slender arch of her neck as she leaned forward, mesmerized by the way the muscles there shifted and turned, casting shadows into the newly formed hollows.

He was so close to her now; close enough that he could smell the deep set scent of rich soil. He inhaled slowly, trying to not make a lot of noise but still wanting to get as much of that smell as possible. The conversation that he'd had earlier with his brothers was far from his mind now, the potential threat of Sasuke not even crossing his thoughts as all he could see was her. She filled his every thought, every sense, every desire.

His large hands slowly slid around her, resting besides hers on the window ledge as he peered over her shoulder, examining the differences. He'd remembered her hands to be calloused, and they were, but in comparison to his, they were smooth and creamy; so much smaller than his scar-strewn fists. She gasped as soon as they came into her view, whirling around to face the person that by no means could be a woman. And then she was facing him.

Sable eyes bore into halcyon gold, so smoldering in their intensity that she feared she would burn. He studied her carefully. From her shocked, lax mouth, to her surprisingly limpid eyes. They looked so surprised, but beneath that he could catch the faint traces of relief. For reasons unknown, his body relaxed. He supposed that it was a product of being so near her.

For a moment, all they did was look at each other. Him, caging her against the window with his arms on either side, onyx hair tumbling over his shoulders with small slivers of silver from the moon; and her, arching both into and away from his body as she was forced to bend over the window ledge, haloed by the moonlight shining behind her, her eyes glowing a white gold.

"Five years," he murmured. "Five years of sand, and blood, and decay."

She averted her eyes, darted them to the floor as she gnawed fitfully on her bottom lip. Her fingers were white against the window ledge, gripping the stone there as if she were trying to make it crumble.

"Why," he whispered, tilting his head to catch her eyes again. "is it that when you wish for my return, you do not welcome it?"

This time she looked towards the ceiling, the moonlight highlighting the golden flecks in her eyes. He wouldn't admit it, but he was hurt; hurt that the one person whom he wished to see the most was not there to greet him. He'd gone through so much, so very much, and she wouldn't even look at him.

"Tell me, little angel."

She now seemed fascinated by his arms, bare before her from his sleeveless shirt. One of her shaky hands came up to touch him, his right arm tingling as she blazed a burning path down his skin, tracing his scars as she went. "Aku," her hand froze. "Tell me—"

"Tell you what?" Her whispered words were like the wind rustling through the trees, echoing in his ears. "Tell you some excuse? Tell you that I couldn't make it?" Her eyes were on him now, and he noted the tears in the corners with something close to shock. He had never seen her cry before. "Tell you that I wished I could see you?"

"Tell me anything." His hand was up now, dragging the back of it down the side of her cheek. "Tell me everything."

There was a silence, only broken by the sounds of the forest outside. The cicadas and crickets chirping constantly, something rustling through a bush, the wind filter through the leaves of trees.

"I was afraid."

She spoke so quietly that if he had not been standing so close to her, he would've missed it. He did not interrupt when she offered nothing else, simply waited. And soon, she began to speak again.

"Afraid that I wouldn't see you, afraid that I _would_ see you. I was afraid that you would see me, or that you would see…someone else."

"I was afraid," she swallowed. "That you had not returned. But I was too terrified to seek you out."

The last words came out in a choked sob, barely restrained tears gathering as she strove to maintain control. He studied her carefully.

"This is not the stubborn woman I know, Aku. This is an imposter."

"Even the stubborn must concede at some point."

"I know."

He crushed her into him, reveling in the feel of her lithe arms encircling his neck as she buried her face into his chest. He gripped her desperately, arms wrapped around her waist and across her back, her body molding to his as her scent washed over him. He nearly choked on the heady smell, burying his nose into her skin in a bid to memorize every trace of earth that seemed permanently absorbed into her skin. It was intoxicating, being this close to her, holding her, hearing her sobs as she cried for him. For him.

Without his knowing, his hand was drifting upwards. She froze when his fingers brushed the fabric of the scarf that held her secret from him. She tried to pull away, small shivers wracking her frame as she jerked and twisted. But his hands were firm, and she could not move. He shushed her gently, working at the tight knot with deft fingers. "Hush, Aku. It is alright," he whispered, feeling her heartbeat thunder away near the top of his stomach. "No," she whimpered. "No!."

"Thank you." His words startled her, her body stilling in his arms like a flower that had reached the surface of water after drifting through the air. He could nearly feel her muscles jumping away beneath his fingers, and he rubbed at them soothingly.

"What?" she whispered, confused. "Thank you," he repeated. "For saving my life."

"I—I don't understa—"

"War, Aku," he interrupted. "Do you know what that means?"

She didn't respond.

"It means blood. It means tears. It means _screams. _But above all else," he pulled back slightly to look at her. "It means death."

A tear escaped her eye as she fingered another scar on his arm. At another time, she wouldn't have dared to touch him. Getting attached was dangerous, and she told herself time and time again that she would never fall prey to a man's words. But at the moment she didn't care, and she willingly moved closer to embrace him.

"We marched for months, through rain, through hail, and through snow. But all around us the landscape was changing. It wasn't noticeable at first; just a little less trees here, and some dead grass there. But then patches were missing, and then entire stretches of land. Soon, it was nothing but dry dirt, blowing into our eyes from even the smallest of breezes."

He capturing her eyes with his as he spoke in soft, hushed murmurs. "It was the desert of Persia. It was so hot, so dry. We were parched. The Persians raided us frequently, spilling our water supplies to the sand, killing our men; so much chaos.

"It was so hard, Aku. Just to stay standing; to tell myself that there was something worth living for. I woke every night from nightmares, and then when dawn came I faced what came to me in those dreams.

"I nearly died; one day I just couldn't go on. I fell from my horse into the sand and was unresponsive. I didn't want to go on; I could barely remember what home was."

Aku took in a shuddering breath, a single tear streaking down her face and she lowered it in shame. She didn't know exactly what Madara Uchiha was to her, but she knew that despite his obnoxious behavior, he had somewhere wormed his way into her heart.

"And then I remembered you."

Her head snapped up so fast she was sure it should crack, his fingers jerked from the back of her neck. He replaced them gently. This close, she could see flecks of deep cobalt in his sable eyes, reminding her of the deepest, darkest, parts of the ocean.

"I remembered how you smell," he continued, voice a soft murmur of silk. "Always, you smell of the most vibrant earth—the grass after rain, the scent of vanilla and pine, flowers and rosemary, soil and stone—it brought me back from that desert; brought me away from sand and heat and flame. And then I saw those eyes."

She could hardly breathe at this point, but when he said that, she lost it entirely despite the sharp gasp she took at his words. No one had ever, in her memory since childhood, complimented her eyes. She did not know what he was going to say, but the way he said those words, as if they were a reverent chant that would breathe life into a dying soul—it made her heart pound.

"Those terrifyingly beautiful eyes. They glow, Aku, in the dark and sparkle in the sun. They are gold; flashing, brilliant gold. Molten pools, fire, embers; I'll say whatever I have to for you to believe me when I say that they are the most beautiful things I have ever laid eyes upon. They are what captured me first. Your soul shines so luminously it is radiant. And I am a prisoner to those eyes."

"Madara," she breathed, hardly believing what she was hearing. "It must seem selfish," he whispered. "After all you've done for me; I still want more."

"I want more Aku. I want to know all of your secrets—why your feet are always bare, why your dress is always torn, and why," he laughed, "Mud is always smeared across your skin." He took one of her hands, running his fingers over her palm and staring intently down at it. "I want to know why your hands are so calloused," he pressed his nose to it, inhaling gently. "And why they smell of stone.

"I want to know what you look like when you laugh; when joy overcomes you; what it looks like when you smile for me." He left her hand against his cheek, her thumb sliding slowly along his cheekbone and back as he reached for her. He grasped her chin gently, brushing his own thumb across her bottom lip, the calloused pad catching on the petal soft skin, warm breath puffing out from her lips. "I want to know what you taste like," He secretly reveled in the way her cheeks and ears flushed scarlet. "What you feel like entwined in my arms, for no one else to see."

She didn't think her heart could take much more of this. It was already beating so fast that she feared it would fail. And his eyes were only making it worse. They were so intense, so profound, so _powerful; _she swore that in some moments she could see crimson fire in them. They changed so frequently, like a kaleidoscope enshrouded by shadow. And his voice; so fierce, so acute, yet as smooth as a honeyed river; the personification of silk wrapped steel. No, she decided, she couldn't take much more of this, but she wanted it anyway. Even if part of her screamed to push him away.

He looked down at her, the most tender she had ever seen him. Whenever he came for her, he was so strong, his eyes blazing with want, with need, with determination. But now they were open, limpid and vivid and _pure, _and she found her breath taken from her just looking into them; looking at his bared soul.

"I want," he whispered, sliding both his hands around her neck, thumbs brushing her jaw on either side of her face. She could feel his fingers at the nape of her neck.

"To see you as a man sees his woman."

Time stopped entirely at those words; that confession. Dread coiled desperately in her stomach as a chilling thought—no, _realization—_occurred to her. Where had her mind run to? Had she not heard similar words before? Had she not fallen for them not once, but twice already? Did she enjoy having her heart torn savagely from her chest?

Slowly, ever so slowly, she was coming back to herself. He was only another to add to the rest, to the rest that betrayed her trust. She couldn't trust him. She just couldn't. Carefully, she began to slide her arms to her sides, letting their embrace drop.

"I know that everyone sees you as a monster," he hissed. "And I know that your name translates directly into nightmare, but you are my miracle; my treasure; my _angel. _And by the gods I _want you._"

"Mada—"

"Say you'll have me," he shook her, boring his eyes into hers, nothing short of desperate, shameless love shining in his eyes. "Say that you'll have me as your husband."

"Stop!" she sighed, slapping her hand into his chest while stepping out of his arms. "No more, Madara, no more." She let out a sigh, a cold and broken expression upon her face.

"So you accept?"

There was a silence, one that nearly killed Madara for he feared rejection in those small, stretching seconds.

"I cannot," she murmured, eyes flicking up to his underneath her lashes. "I cannot."

The thing line of his lips turned hastily into a frown. "What do you mean?"

"You are not the first," she whispered, looking up into his eyes vapidly, as if seeing someone else in his place. "To speak such words to me."

Madara's eyes opened in shock. He wasn't the first to notice her then. Some part of him had anticipated this, but a larger part had stated arrogantly that he was the first to notice her for what she truly was.

"You are not the first," she whispered, voice raising as she continued to speak. "To trick me with honey-coated _lies._" Her eyes were no longer the open, shining orbs that he loved, but now the cold, glinting amber of the panther. The eyes of a predator. The eyes of hate.

"They are not lies," he hissed in response. She laughed. But it wasn't a pretty laugh. No, this was the choking sob of mindless animal. "I cannot believe that," she brought her hands to her face. "I cannot believe a single word that comes from your mouth unless it is to say that I am a monster."

"You are not a monster!"

"And what would you know!" she shouted. "What would you know of me," slapped her hand to her chest, gripping the skin above her heart fitfully. "What would know of my heart, my mind? You know nothing! I _am _a monster! And you," she shook her finger at him, a mad cackle escaping her lips before dying on her breath. "You know only what your pride allows you to see. A _prize_," she spat.

Madara's eyes bled crimson with rage. How dare she. How _dare _she. He was not a liar, he was not an insolent fool that proved his worth by pathetic conquests of women. But evidently, others were. "How many," he hissed. "How many before me have approached you."

She laughed, nearly dissolving into hysterics. "How many, he asks. How many? Why, for all my body knows it was an entire army that tore me to shreds! But my mind," she whispered, a mad gleam in her eye. "My mind stubbornly states that it was only four."

Scarlet orbs narrowed dangerously, a muscle jumping in his cheek as her eyes hardened once more as venom dripped from her next words.

"And _both,"_ she stood tall now, looking at him as if he were a traitor. "Agree that a fifth is unacceptable."

"I cannot accept that."

"So it seems that we are at odds, both wanting what the other is not willing to give. What do you propose, general? Survivor of war?"

"Do not _mock _me or those days," he seethed. "The horrors I bore witness to you would terrify you."

She only laughed madly. "Horrors? Death is a horror, indeed. But there are other horrors in this world far worse than that mercy."

It took a moment to process the words that she had just spoken, but when they finally settled, it took almost of all his will not to strike her. She mocked him. She mocked his five-year nightmare. And she claimed to have had experienced something far, far worse. Her eyes spoke of a pain that Madara was unfamiliar with, and he knew that both of them were broken, horribly cracked creatures. But he knew they could mend each other.

"Trust me," he said. "Trust me and I swear you will not regret it."

"It's like a script!" she cackled. "Do you rehearse this before coming to me? Are you friends hiding in the trees right now?"

"Trust me," he bit out, ignoring her taunts. Her mad smile fell, her expression resembling his battle hardened men. Harsh, cold, unforgiving. "And what would I gain from it?"

"A friend, a lover, a companion."

"I have that already."

"Who? You say that you are alone."

"I am, but that is all I need. Myself, and my surroundings. The earth is my friend."

Madara tilted his head curiously. "Surely that must be lonesome."

"The earth does not leave."

"Neither will I."

"You cannot promise that."

"I can."

"I cannot trust you."

Madara wanted to scream. It was as if he were running in circles, like he was lost in the minotaur's maze. How? How was he supposed to gain any ground with this woman. Men had seen her before, and though he did not know how much she gave each time, it appeared that they took and took and then left her cold and dry. So she could not trust. She couldn't trust his words or his actions. But he was stubborn. He wanted her. He wanted her badly. The need was incessant. But what could he give her? What could possibly tempt a creature without trust to give up—

His eyes widened slightly, then returned to their normal size. Aku noticed the change immediately. Before, he was tense with rage. Coiled muscles ready to spring. And she was ready for attack. But then suddenly he relaxed, a breath leaving his nostrils as if a weight was lifted off his chest. The frown in his brow smoothed, the fists uncurled, and before her was the regal leader of the army. Sophisticated eyes peered at her under black lashes and she was suddenly afraid.

"If you won't give me your trust," he said, his voice a deep timber that threatened to make her shiver. "Then I will buy it."

He knew that his words had caught her off-guard because her eyes widened and a smothered word caught in the back of her throat. They were soon narrowed in suspicion as she crossed her arms in a protective manner.

"And what," she said cautiously. "Currency will be used?" She knew that it would not be in gold, silver, or bronze. No, trust of this sort could not be bought with that. His smile set her on edge.

"Secrets."

_To be continued…_


End file.
